


Damn I Love You

by lovefrom221bboys



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefrom221bboys/pseuds/lovefrom221bboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Sherlock suffers a lot more from John's recent engagement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damn I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There are depressing and unhealthy thoughts in this story, so don't read this if you are sensitive for such things.

Faking your own death isn't hard. It's childsplay compared with what comes next. With coming back, with seeing the one you love hating you more than anything in the world, with speaking at his wedding, with the empty and silent days and nights at the place that once was your home. 

Faking your own death isn't _hard_. It's what comes next. 

***

A human being can survive a week without water. Every cell of the human body is made out of water and needs it to function. 

Sherlock calculates he would only last a week without seeing John. Every cell of his body needs John to function.

***

"I finally asked her. We got interrupted last time," John announces. 

Sherlock doesn't look at him. His bones are icecold. 

"What?" He pretends to be too engaged in his experiment. He cringes at the word his mind uses. _engaged_

"The marriage, Sherlock. I finally asked Mary to marry me, because you waltzed in last time."

Shelock regrets his question. He feels as if John hit him in the stomach. Hearing the words spoken out loud, letting them free to roam through the already heavy air, leaves a stinging pain in Sherlock's chest.

"Oh." He doesn't dare look up, he wouldn't be able to restrain himself from begging John to come back if he did so. 

John fumbles with something in his hands. An envelope by the sound of the soft crackling. Sherlock knows what's in it. He wants to rip it to pieces and shoot it and rumple it and tear it and burn it and throw it out of the flat. He doesn't want it here in Baker Street. It's poison in the room.

John still wears his coat. Sherlock can smell it's still damp from the rain in the London air. He's been walking then. 

John clears his throat. Sherlock adapts the lense on his microscope even though it isn't necessary and he only blurs the view. 

"Well, I'll lay it here, then," John says, Sherlock nods without looking. John stands there for a while, watching Sherlock. Six times it seems as if he wants to say something. 

Say it.

Please, say it.

But John nods and with a mumbled 'see you later' he's off.

When Sherlock hears a cab stopping, a door banging shut and the cab pulling up again, he smashes the petri dishes from the table. 

Mrs Hudson finds him still standing in the kitchen, surrounded by shards and splinters of glass and staring numbly at his bleeding hands. He can't process the sight in front of him, his head is filled with a white noise as he sees John with the envelope.

He doesn't really notice Mrs Hudson taking him downstairs and cleaning the dozens of little cuts in his hands. 

When he goes back upstairs, he pointedly ignores the cream-coloured envelope on the mantelpiece.

***

They used to buy Skittles when John still lived in Baker Street. Sherlock ate the yellow ones, John ate the green ones, they shared the purple ones and John ate the rest because he couldn't throw them away.

It has been a while since Sherlock last ate Skittles. He doesn't want to eat them alone.

***

Sherlock has succeeded in eating two pieces of toast for breakfast and one cup of tea. He leaves the plate on the counter and wanders to the mantelpiece. The envelope glows, demanding to be seen. 

Sherlock lifts it up from the mantelpiece. His hand shakes slightly - _why?_ -, the envelope seems way too heavy, it drags his arm to the ground.

He knows what's in it, he knows because he helped making it. He opens it.

Birds on the left, text on the right.

_Dr John Hamish Watson and Miss Mary Elizabeth Morstan_

_Request the pleasure of your company_

_at their marriage_

_at_

_St. Mary's Church, Sutton Mallet_

_on_

_Saturday 18th May_

_at 12 o'clock_

The invitation flutters slowly to the floor as Sherlock dashes to the bathroom and throws up the two pieces of toast and the cup of tea he managed to eat.

***

Sherlock loves dancing. Always loved it.

He closes the curtains when it's grown dark outside, casting a last glance on the abandoned street below, wrapped in the faint yellow light from the streetlamps. It's become a habit to skim the street when he passes the window, foolishly still hoping John might appear with milk or takeway after his shift like he used to.

He puts on John's favourite song. Or what used to be his favourite song, at least, he isn't sure anymore because John doesn't live here anymore. Sherlock doesn't particularly like it, but it reminds him of late post-case nights with hot tea and both of them giggling ridiculously on the couch.

He closes his eyes, raises his arms and imagines John is there. Sherlock places his hand on the small of John's back, with the other he holds his hand. He pulls him closer and begins to move, dancing slowly on the spot.

Sherlock can almost feel the roughness of John's warm hand in his, the pressure of his chest against his, the brush of his cheek against his neck, the tickling of his breath on his shoulder, the soft fabric under his fingertips. He can almost smell John; the scent he had _before_ , the scent of tea and the clinic and jumpers and aftershave and home and safety and trust and danger and _John_. 

John. 

Faking your own death isn't hard.

They're so close. Sherlock pulls him yet closer and John doesn't mind. Sherlock brushes his nose and lips along John's tanned neck and John softly hums along with the music. 

Sherlock can picture the small, absent-minded smile on John's lips when he presses a kiss right under his ear. 

The music has long since stopped, but in Sherlock's head it goes on and John and he keep dancing calmly. They have all the time in the world.

And because everything is a lie anyway, Sherlock apologises. He whispers it in John's ear over and over, explaining, _finally_ explaining John he did it all for him. And John says it is okay, kissing the tear on Sherlock's cheek. 

When John has faded away and Sherlock is left with the aching silence once again, he mounts the stairs for the first time in weeks. 

John left a couple of things in his bedroom, Sherlock doesn't know why but he is incredibly grateful for it. 

He takes a jumper out of the closet. He strips to his underwear and pulls the jumper over his head.

Sherlock crawls in John's bed, his nostrils fill with the familiar, though faint scent. He swallows, but the lump in his throat doesn't go away.

He falls asleep surrounded by John and it is almost enough.

***

_The colour yellow is the colour of the mind and the intellect, the practical thinker, not the dreamer. The colour green is the great balancer of the heart and the emotions, creating equilibrium between the head and the heart._

_The colour purple inspires unconditional and selfless love._

Sherlock ate the yellow ones, John ate the green ones. 

They shared the purple ones. 

Sherlock can't help but wonder if John shares them with Mary now.

***

"Could you, ehm, maybe compose something for us?" 

Sherlock's eyes snap to John. He is sitting at the table in the living room opposite Sherlock, reading the newspaper while Sherlock is saving data on his laptop. 

"For our first dance, that is," John explains when he doesn't get an answer, "we couldn't really find a song and I- we would like it if you made something for us." A small smile flashes over his face, but Sherlock can read the insecurity in his eyes. 

"Of course," he says, because he could never say no to John. John smiles, relieved, but Sherlock notes there is something else. He waits.

"And another thing," John eventually says, he takes a deep breath, "it's kind of embarrasing to ask" -nervous smile, clears his throat- "but, ehm, I really can't dance and Mary likes to waltz. But you can dance quite well, so I figured... maybe you could... teach me?" He barely dares to meet Sherlock's eye. 

A small earthquake shudders through Sherlock's chest. 

"Yes," he says immediately and it's too fast, too breathy, too needy, too desperate. 

But John -lovely, fantastic, brilliant John- just smiles, now genuinly relieved and says: "But I warn you, I'm really clumsy when it comes to dancing, so please be patient with me."

Sherlock nods. _Of course I'll be patient with you, John, I don't want it to end._

He stands up abruptly. "Shall we begin?"

"What? Now?" John seems taken aback. 

"Why not?" 

John hesitates a moment longer, but stands up eventually. Sherlock has to suppress the huge, foolish smile that threatens to break through. He manages to reduce it to an appropriate friends-smile. 

His dressing gown whirls around him in his haste to turn around and put on a waltz. He shoves the furniture against the walls so they have the room they need.

When he turns back to John, his body almost shivers with anticipation. 

"I'll lead first to show you, so pay attention," Sherlock says. He could easily have explained the steps to John, but he wants to do this just once.

Just this once.

Just like in his imagination, he takes John's right hand gently in his left and places his other hand on John's left shoulder blade. "Lay your hand on my shoulder, your arm should rest on mine," he says sofly. John does as he says. "The joined hands should be lifted to the eye level of the shorter person," Sherlock explains as he raises their hands, John nods.

Then, Sherlock finally begins to dance, explaining in a low voice what he does. John's brow is frowned when he intently looks at thier feet and their movements. 

"Don't look down, John," Sherlock says after a while. He can barely hold the _look at me_ inside. 

But John looks at him and Sherlock thinks he's imagining, he's dreaming, he's hallucinating. 

He doesn't understand how breathing comes so easy to John when he realises it really is John's warm hand in his, the fabric of his jumper under his fingertips, the pressure of John's hand on his own shoulder, gripping him slightly too tightly. Sherlock can't mind less.

And as John looks at him, John slowly forgets to pay attention to what they are doing and Sherlock forgets John isn't his. 

He pulls him closer, closer than necessary, but he can't stand the space between them anymore. They've already been too far for too long. 

The music carries them away as they waltz through the room. John has a faint flush on his cheeks and he licks his lips as his eyes dart from Sherlock's eyes to the cupid bow shaped lips and back. Sherlock's eyes are half-closed and their noses almost touch. Sherlock can feel John's warm breath on his mouth, John can feel Sherlock's dark curls brushing his forehead.

The music stops. 

They stop.

John stops.

He's pulled back to reality, to the flat named 221B Baker Street. And when he goes back into reality, he breaks away from Sherlock. 

It feels like John tore away Sherlock's arm.

John is mumbling something while he is looking at anything but Sherlock and grabs his coat. His words don't reach Sherlock. He can't quite process what's just happened, his Mind Palace is chaos.

When he finally seems to come back, blinking and still confused, John is already gone.

Sherlock's heart aches with the loss of the short illusion of a perfect world.

***

It's been almost a week and Sherlock waits for his cells to stop functioning. But then, John shows up as if nothing happened and asks to resume their lessons.

Sherlock can see the memory and the regret in John's eyes, so he just explains the steps and lets John lead. But he can't stop himself from stalling by saying John doesn't do some steps right even though he does them almost perfectly.

***

Sherlock's drunk way too much. John's drunk way too much.

Sherlock doesn't understand how this could have happened. He's worked out everything, calculated how much they each could drink before it became uncomfortable. Before Sherlock could do something wrong.

But Sherlock isn't as alarmed with the fact that they are both ridiculously drunk as he should be. John sits in front of him in his chair. A card is pasted on his forehead but the letters dance around each other and Sherlock's vision blurs. 

He can't concentrate on the questions John asks him. Not when John is sitting there with spread legs, his chin on his hand, a glass of scotch in his other hand and his eyes fixed on Sherlock with a dazed laziness.

Sherlock has bought Skittles and has put them in a bowl. So far he's only eaten safe yellow ones, but the alcohol makes him brave and reckless. He eats a red one.

John follows the candy as it travels to Sherlock's mouth in his elegant fingers. His eyes stay at his lips, he swallows and licks his own lips. Message delivered.

Sherlock watches him closely. The alcohol numbed his sense of danger, but he can feel the adrenaline buzz through him.

John shifts in his chair. They continue the game.

"Am I the current king of England?" Sherlock guesses eventually. John laughs.

"You know we don't have a king?"

"Don't we?" Sherlock asks, genuinely confused.

"No." The smile doesn't leave John's face. 

"Your go," Sherlock says, sitting back and nipping his scotch.

And then John's hand is on Sherlock's knee and Sherlock almost drops his glass. He forgets what they're doing because John's hand stays right where it is. He sets down his glass and plucks Sherlock's out of his hand, too.

John picks a red Skittle from the bowl and eats it. 

Sherlock looks at John, his eyes are wide. John looks back and his intentions can't be misinterpreted. His hand goes up and up and up and slides over Sherlock's chest to cup his face. Sherlock can feel John's other hand on his cheek too. 

He can't do anything than sit there, he's paralysed while John crawls on his lap and kisses him. When he feels those soft lips against his and feels them forming his name into his mouth, he suddenly comes back to life. He grabs John's hips, slides his hands over the curve of his arse and pulls him closer, closer, closer, afraid that John might go away. 

But John holds on as tightly as Sherlock. Sherlock can feel the same desperation in John's kisses as he himself feels. John grinds his hips firmly against Sherlock and they both moan into each other's mouths at the glorious feeling.

Suddenly, Sherlock's vision isn't blurred at all anymore. He can see everything crystal clear. His skin has become hypersensitive and he can't keep from thrusting his hips up, but that's okay because John can't stop with grinding into him either.

John's mouth travels to Sherlock's long, pale neck and Sherlock gasps and makes high-pitched noises as he feels John's teeth and tongue in rhythm with their frantic thrusts. 

He can't hold it in anymore. "John, I l-"

But John quickly pushes his mouth against Sherlock's to silence him. "Don't," he says, breaking away an inch and returning to his neck, he begins peeling of Sherlock's jacket and shirt, kissing and licking the newly exposed skin. "Don't say it."

So Sherlock bites his tongue and settles for John's name when John issues him to his bedroom and takes him apart.

***

_The colour red is the colour of energy, passion and action. It is the colour of sexuality and can stimulate deeper and more intimate passions in us._

Why did he eat the red one?

***

John dresses himself as the morning light seeps in and washes away the lies. He can't meet Sherlock's eye and Sherlock's head hurts like hell, but he can still remember every single detail, can still picture it as clear as day.

When John waits until his aspirin is dissolved in the water, Sherlock eats a purple Skittle. He's sure John has seen it, but John ignores it.

John downs his glass. "This didn't happen." His first words since he practically screamed Sherlock's name that night, trying to muffle it in the pillow.

"But it did," Sherlock can't help it. He stares at John, he knows he shouldn't do this, but now he felt what it is like, what it could be, he can't give it up yet. He can't give it up because it felt so bloody good and right and true. And it was.

Sherlock is sure it was.

John sighs and covers his face with his hands. They are shaking. "Sherlock, I'm..." He has to take a deep, shuddering breath. "Please, don't do this, Sherlock. Just... delete it, I know you can, just delete it. I would appreciate that."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but John knows enough.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, "But I can't do this, Sherlock. I can't. I'm so sorry."

And before Sherlock can stand up or call for him or grab his hand and turn him around and kiss him and comfort him or even before he can _blink_ , John is gone.

***

John and Mary marry at St. Mary's Church, Sutton Mallet on Saturday 18th May at 12 o'clock. It's been a beautiful day and a beautiful wedding. 

Sherlock hates everything about it. Sherlock hates himself and his deductions. 

He leaves early and John doesn't even notice.

***

One week after the wedding Sherlock buys cocaine for the first time in years because he's still alive and his Mind Palace broke down and nobody is there to tell him otherwise.

For a glorious moment Sherlock feels alive again, energy flowing through his veins like rivers of sunshine. He feels warmth again for the first time after the night that didn't happen. He feels he can handle the world. He feels free. 

He feels as if John is with him.

For a glorious moment he feels as if everything is right.

**Author's Note:**

> I used this site for the meaning of colours:  
> http://www.empower-yourself-with-color-psychology.com/meaning-of-colors.html
> 
> The title is a line from Keaton Henson's 'Party Song' which I used as a source of inspiration for this fic.


End file.
